


Chiaro Oscuro

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (first smut I've written in forever pls be kind), (i don't think that's an actual tag lol), Art, Art student / curator, Exhibitionism, F/M, Life Drawing, Oneshot, Smut, Vaguely student/teacher but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8419237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Sneaking into the Gallery of King's Landing for a public life drawing class was meant to be an exploration of her skills. An afternoon of understanding the fluidity of the human body and motions.Instead Sansa has found herself to be the work of art gazed upon by complete strangers. Her body feels on fire as her curves capture the stare of every man in the room.And his eyes never stray from her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired by a similar scene in Pushing the Limits. Not sure which universe has Petyr as a gallery curator but just go with it. (also I'm shit with story summaries ahaha)  
> Like always, the plot changed from what I intended, and the writing ending up /way/ longer than I thought. Still good though. Enjoy! :D ]

            There was something in the act of _creating_ that thrilled Sansa. In taking unusable objects and materials and forming them into pieces that were not just a sum of their parts, but into completely new things of beauty and awe. Bits of colored string became intricate gardens of flowers woven onto clothes. Brushes and paints danced together into a harmony of shades and hues of vibrant expressions. Blocks of clay melded under fingers into objects of use –cups and pots and vases (though, she had to admit, pottery was not her strongest suit).

            But that didn’t matter. The skill wasn’t what attracted Sansa – it was the forming, the shaping. The transformation of something unwanted or unskilled into a piece that meant so much more.

            Sansa knew that she always wanted to dive into art when shew grew older. To continue her passion until she was a withered old lady knitting scarfs and sweaters for her grandchildren. Even when her fingers numbed and eyesight became hazy shapes of light and shadow – Sansa would live all her years into bringing beauty into the world.

            Her betrothed was absolutely _disgusted_ in any form of art. The only art Joffrey deigned to delight in was the sort of war and murder and blood. And he tried, time and again, to force his ideas of art onto Sansa; willing or not.

            And his mother would absolutely not have the wife of the future King be some _frivolous painter_. A high and noble lady hidden away from the world in a studio of toxic paints and darkness. Cersei did not care much for Sansa save her name and familial lands. And Cersei made clear again and again how much Sansa was forbidden from anything remotely artsy.

            It was a sort of _thrill_ , then, sneaking out to the Gallery.

            Sansa’s hand was in Margaery’s, the latter leading and shoving her way through the throng of people idling about. Sansa was delighted for the presence of the Tyrell girl – someone who may not have understood Sansa completely, but did not outright _oppose_ the few passions that kept Sansa sane.

            Not to mention that Margaery was so willing to be the excuse for whenever Sansa wanted to explore and practice her art. Margaery loved posing in the gardens or throughout the streets, not-so-candidly admiring buildings and statues, or casually looking in the distance. There were dozens of sketches and unfinished canvases stored in Margaery’s own rooms, away from any Lannister prying eyes. Unfinished, because Margaery would complain of the color scheme or the way her hair fell across her shoulders. Sansa wondered if there was ever a _deeper_ reason behind the girl’s desire to want to be captured and drawn.

            So here they were, flitting through the crowd towards the smaller gallery spaces near the back. There were four of these rooms, each with a capacity of about a fifty people standing in close proximity. The walls were often showcased with the work of art students from the King’s Landing’s smaller arts university. The work ranged from the simple black-and-white charcoal sketches of blocks and fruit, to the more advanced oil portraits of teachers and friends of the students. And even more exciting were the masters studies, some of which Sansa felt surpassed in skill of the original artist.

            Sansa would often come with her sketchbook and hold it up besides the students’ work. Imagining, in a different timeline, where she too would be exploring her creativity. Where learning how best to color landscapes and capture the proportions of the human body weren’t sacrilegious to this current family she was forcibly entwined with.

            “Don’t fall behind, little wolf!” Margaery called back as a crowd of people threatened to split the bond of their hands. Panic flooded Sansa’s stomach at the fear of behind lost, so she gripped even harder. Margaery would complain of the death grip, of the possible bruising. But Sansa did not, could not, be alone.

            Passing through the last archway, the two girls entered those smaller gallery spaces. It was less crowded of people, only because much of the floor was now occupied by pairs of chairs and easels.

            A thread of excitement wound through Sansa’s body as she looked at them. As she imagined herself sitting in the front row, capturing the figure in their exactness. As she would be mixing her paints and blending with perfect finesse, such that everyone behind her was jealous of her skill. That, somehow, the university’s headmaster would single her out and _beg_ for Sansa to join the arts program.

            She gripped Margaery’s hand tighter in exhilaration.

            “Gods above, Sansa! Please try not to pull my hand off!” Margaery laughed, staring at Sansa with such a friendly warmth. “Or at the least pull off the other one; I could get by without the left.”

            “Sorry,” Sansa replied, unable to contain the smile spreading over her face. “Just the excitement of being here, is all.”

            Margaery smiled back. She was Sansa’s friend, her _only_ friend, in this unknown city of King’s Landing. No one else saw Sansa as a human with her own interests and desires. No one else cared to – or was as daring to – go behind Cersei’s back and keep the artistic fire inside Sansa alive. Both of them knew they would be thoroughly punished should someone important see them in the Gallery. Sansa squeezed Margaery’s hand before letting go and headed towards the easels.

            Half of them were occupied already, most of them men at least seven or ten name-days older. Some were even as old as her parents. And there, in the back corner, was a man old enough to be her grandfather.

            There weren’t any other women save for Sansa and Margaery, nor anyone as young as them. Sansa idly imagined the other small gallery spaces to be filled with girls, but was afraid to lose their seats if they chose to investigate. This room was starting to fill up as the time ticked by.

            They were sat in the back row, slightly off-center from the plain chair that was sitting atop a white linen. Additional candelabras were set up surrounding the chair, each expertly placed so that they would not block the view of anyone. The easels were arranged in a semi-circle about that chair, and Sansa’s stomach flitted in nerves at imagining being up there with so many pairs of eyes watching. At being stuck with nowhere to go.

            “I cannot believe you managed to drag me to this event,” Margaery muttered, setting up her own canvas, brushes, and paints. They were practically unused, extras that Sansa had no problem in lending the girl. Margaery was hardly experienced in creating fine art of the sort that Sansa did.

            “After today, I’m sure you’ll see just how _exciting_ art can be,” Sansa argued, setting up her own arrangement. Her fingers were shaking slightly, the nerves moving from a combination of excitement and trepidation. Excitement – because of the professional models that they would be drawing from, and of these rooms filled with so many other connoisseurs and practioners of the arts. And trepidation – because she could be _seen_. Because someone could report her to Cersei, and gods only knew what sort of punishment she would invoke.

            Being betrothed to Joffrey was punishment enough.

            “If I wanted to spend an afternoon studying a man’s or woman’s body, this is certainly _not_ the place I would have chosen.” Sansa couldn’t help but blush at the implication of Margaery’s words. The Tyrell girl was only a few name-days older than Sansa, and yet Sansa was still so _inexperienced_ in the ways of the world outside of the required teachings of a proper lady. And a proper lady would never, ever, discuss such bold topics so brazenly and so publicly.

            “There will be plenty of that for tonight,” Sansa quipped back. She was glad that Margaery laughed, that Sansa was finding her own way in the world. A world that was still so foreign and unusual compared to Winterfell. But her new home, now, for…forever.

            Margaery was about to retort back when a rapping echoed through the gallery. Voices silenced.

            “Gentlemen. And Ladies,” came a voice from a man that was currently walking towards the center of the easels. Sansa was trying to see him through the wood and the bodies, but failed. “I appreciate your coming this afternoon for an exploration of the human body. Though, admittedly, an exploration in the bedroom would have been much more exciting.” Everyone laughed, and Sansa managed a weak one. Several of the other men quipped in with their own remarks of _debauchery_ , resulting in even louder laughter.

            Another series of knocks – silence. “Quite. Now, today there will be four models that shall be rotated out every hour, and a break between to stretch your legs.” Someone behind Sansa added: that’s not what I’ll be stretching. More laughter. “Yes. Now, I must enforce that these models are _professionals_ of the arts, not common street whores. Should I catch any single one of you in the nearest _vicinity_ of them, you shall be firmly dislodged and prohibited entry ever again to the Gallery.” The man paused a moment. “And should I catch anyone touching them, in any way, you will say farewell to your manhood. And _then_ you will be firmly dislodged and prohibited entry ever again. Is this understood?”

            Silence fell throughout the room as the twenty men clutched at their breeches. Margaery gave a small snigger at their fear.

            Sansa, meanwhile, finally caught a glimpse of the man that was talking.

            He was scanning the room, taking note of every person that sat or stood, making sure that eye-contact was established before moving on to the next. A display of dominance. A display of: _I know what you look like and will not be tolerate disobedience, ensuring that your manhood is forcibly ripped from between your legs_. Even Sansa squeezed her legs together at the thought.

            And then his gaze fell on hers.

            The candlelight fell against his face in sharp contrast, highlighting the darkness of his eyes and the angles of his cheeks. She saw the greying temples caught in a dancing fire, threatening to encroach upon the rest of his dark, wavy hair.

            But his eyes. They had an impossible intensity, searching upon her own face to commit it to memory. His gazed down her nose and upon her lips, only to circle through her own mane of fiery curls – and finally rested back on Sansa’s eyes.

            There was a slight twitch at the corners of his mouth, something not dissimilar to a smile; but without the mirth Sansa associated with it. There was something heavy there. Something darker.

            And it was gone.

            The man was now observing Margaery, and she him. But the moment was fleeting before his eyes continued down the row.

            Something inside of Sansa was fighting to escape, to explode throughout the room and make itself known. She wasn’t sure what it was.

            “Are you alright?” came a voice beside her. It took a moment before Sansa recognized it as Margaery’s. She had a worried look pressed upon her brows.

            “I… Yes, I’m fine,” Sansa managed to get out. Her own voice seemed so quiet, so fragile. She looked back towards the center, where the man was motioning for someone before leaving. She heard his leaving footsteps echo in her head as the chatter around them began. “Do you know who that man is?”

            Margaery glanced towards where he was. “The man who just spoke?” Sansa nodded. “I believe he is the curator of the Gallery.”

            And his name? But those words didn’t fall from Sansa’s lips. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to this flurry of excitement coiling through her chest.

            A whoop erupted from Sansa’s right, to be met with an angry _Shut up_. Sansa’s thoughts returned to her body as she looked towards the center where the model was. The lady approached with such feminine grace, her hips and breasts swaying in their own rhythm to match her feet. She perched herself on the chair, one leg extended and one bent atop the other knee. An arm draped between them with the other was placed on the arm. She stared off in the distance, in a space behind the easels with a detached gaze. The lazy waves of her dark brown hair flowed over her shoulders, a stark contrast to her milky white skin.

            Sansa was mesmerized by the coolness, by the sheer beauty of this stranger. The confidence and disinterest aimed at these men who knew they _could never have her_.

            The sound of charcoal scraping on canvas brought Sansa out of her daze. She fumbled for her own vine and began lightly sketching the form of the lady. Her curves, her positioning; the general sweep of the candles across her skin.

            A nudge, and Margaery was silently asking what _exactly_ she was meant to do. Sansa had to contain a laugh, and explained that an artist typically began sketching the person before adding the paints. That Margaery should just follow what Sansa was doing, and make the best of it.

            It seemed that Margaery was enthralled by the beauty of the model, too.

            Time seemed to fade away. To exist as a memory of a concept as Sansa continued to work on capturing the model. She blended her colors and roughly blocked where the lights and darks were, and even tried capturing the hue of the candles in the highlights. Sansa’s eyes floating across the model’s body, analyzing every curve and dip and imperfections. There was something intimate about it all. And yet, it was also an act of anonymity between artist and model.

            Sansa knocked over a brush. Silently cursing at herself for breaking her concentration, she fumbled at the base of her easel until her fingers knocked it bacl under her chair. It rolled behind her. A streak of pale brown traced the movement of the brush.

            She set her pallet down and turned around to search for the brush.

            “Is this yours?”

            Sansa froze halfway off her chair. That voice, deep and soft and unforgettable, was a whisper behind her. And yet it felt as though he spoke directly into her. That uncontained flutter whirled through Sansa’s body, her limbs, freezing her in her spot.

            Somehow, she managed to turn her head.

            He was crouched behind her, the wayward brush pinched between fingers and offered towards her. From this distance, Sansa could make out the fine quality in his clothing, and the neat trim of his fingernails and hair.

            And those eyes. Even in the illumination of the fiery candle, she could tell there were flecks of green amongst the grey.

            They stared directly at her. _Into_ her.

            “Th-thank you, sir,” Sansa managed to get out. Her voice was barely audible. A breath caught in her throat that seemed to grow ever tighter. Still she didn’t move for the brush. Nor did he move to place it on her table and leave.

            It seemed that there was something holding him in place, too.

            A metallic _clank_ echoed within the gallery. Groans of unhappiness grew throughout the room as Sansa realized the model had finished her time and left. There were other groans, too; less unhappy and more _unsatisfied_.

            The noise and movement broke whatever was keeping them frozen.

            The man straightened, announcing to the room: “We will be having a small break now. Feel free to move about and replace your canvases. The next model shall arrive in ten minutes.” He walked away without another glance.

            People shuffled out of their chairs, stretching arms and legs. Men compared their paintings with one another. Others continued to make lewd remarks of the model, and how they would much rather paint a canvas of their _own paints_ on her.

            “Gods above, this is so difficult. How did you manage to paint her so well?” Sansa turned to look at Margaery, comparing her canvas and her own. There was still so much left that Sansa could have done. But compared to Margaery’s, Sansa painted a masterpiece.

            “For starters,” Sansa began, “you have to put paint on the canvas and actually _paint_ , not _stare_.”

            Margaery gave a sheepish grin, looking at the rough charcoal lines on her own canvas. They were an abstract collection that – if squinted at really hard – one could assume it to be a person.

            Sansa began switching out her canvas and cleaning her workspace before remembering: that man still had her brush.

            Granted, Sansa had plenty more. And if need be, she could always steal Margaery’s, whose own hadn’t been touched since they arrived. Based on the lack of actual work, Sansa wondered if this was an excuse of a different sort for Margaery. And then realized it definitely was.

            “I need to use the facilities,” Sansa said, rushing out of the cluster of easels before Margaery could insist on joining.

            Perhaps Margaery _should_ have. It would definitely have been the smart thing to do.

            Instead, Sansa wove her way through the crowd of men. Some failed to move and wondered when _she_ would be up on the chair. They howled as she strode around them, blushing at their implications.

            She scanned the edge of the gallery, moving between and around and through people. She was frantic; her heart and her stomach unequal levels of erratic that Sansa had a feeling this was more about reclaiming a lost paintbrush. But, what exactly _was_ this feeling?

            Sansa was pushing herself through bodies between the archway leading from one gallery to the other when someone grabbed her hand. Her body was pulled towards the edge of the arch, and back further into a darker corner of the gallery space.

            Her mouth was open in an act to scream for help when–

            “Is this what you’re looking for?”

            Her vision focused on the paintbrush, on the smear of color left on the bristles. Behind it was a pair of familiar eyes that, away from the brunt of candlelight, appeared as dark as the night sky. The stars were still there: the flecks of green struggling for life against the all-consuming and ever-growing black hole.

            Sansa focused farther back, to capture the entirety of the face and the body that was still holding on to her. The body that was only a foot from her own.

            “I…” she began, eyes flitting between his face and her brush. “Um, yes, thank you.”

            She moved her free hand to retrieve her brush. Her fingers had barely gripped the wood before his moved and covered hers. They were warm, and softer than she knew men’s hands usually were. The smudge of pain smeared across the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

            “I would be careful if I were you,” he said, bringing his face closer. She caught an underlying hint of mint on his breath. “These sorts of men can get…rowdy.”

            Neither of them moved.

            “How do you mean?” she asked.

            His eyes flitted from hers to her mouth and back. A quick glance – so fast that Sansa might not have noticed had time seemed to stop moving. “I mean,” he began, rubbing his thumb in a minute brush over her fingers. “That men who are presented with something they _cannot have_ , are more prone to certain irresponsible acts and urges.”

            Sansa gulped, feeling the moisture struggle on its way down her throat. There was a pounding in her head, too. An incessant thrumming that grew every time his thumb made its circuit of her fingers. A thrum that skipped a beat when this man – this stranger – looked at her lips. They felt suddenly dry, and she licked them.

            “Sir,” someone interrupted.

            There was a flash of annoyance, of anger on his face as he let go of Sansa’s hand. She stood there, clasping one hand against her chest and the other against her cheek. The room seemed so stuffy now, her face burning.

            “What is it?” he snapped at the newcomer.

            Sansa turned to see it was another woman, much older than herself, but dressed finely. Her auburn hair was pulled into a simple set of braids that looped into a bun at the back. This woman didn’t seem entirely phased by the pointed anger directed towards her. As though the anger was a common occurrence.

            “Beth has fallen ill.”

            His eyes narrowed. A muscle in his cheek feathered as he contemplated this _problem_. “Have we no replacements at hand?”

            The woman shook her head. “I am afraid not. We could send for a new model, but it is difficult to say who or when she would arrive.”

            The man leaned on one leg, running a hand through his dark hair. “How has Beth _fallen ill_?” He stressed those words in a mockery of what he would actually deem _ill_.

            This seemed to shake the woman. “Beth has…been having difficulties with her fiancé. It appears that he showed up during the session in gallery room three, and forcibly _removed_ her from her position.”

            “She is dismissed indefinitely from her position until she resolves her own _personal_ issues,” he snapped. “If not, then she is permanently terminated.”

The woman nodded, saddened but understanding. “However, sir, this still provides us short of a model.”

            “We cannot rearrange the easels and men to fit into the three remaining galleries?”

            “Unfortunately, no. The event is rather packed tonight, and the galleries are small and pack as it is already.”

            The man was thinking on this. On debating whether to tell a quarter of the men _Sod off, show’s over_. Or whether there was an alternative that would magically present itself. Break would be over in minutes, and even dark magic would require more time to sufficiently materialize an entire person.

            He turned towards Sansa. The anger in his eyes was softening, his lips turning into something that was neither _upset_ nor _sympathetic_. It was something Sansa was sure plenty of the other men had the moment the model walked into the gallery.

            The flurry of emotions in her stomachturned into something far _worse_.

            His eyes roamed down her body, inspecting Sansa’s own curves and limbs. The _smile-that-was-not-a-smile_ seemed to only grow as his eyes moved. “I believe I have found myself a replacement.”

            The other woman paused for a moment, taking a quick glance as Sansa, before nodding. “She’ll be needed in gallery room one. The break is over in two minutes. I expect she will be ready by then.” And she was gone.

            Leaving Sansa alone with this man.

            This man who – without asking – agreed to have Sansa displayed for a group of strangers.

            Completely naked.

            Oh gods.

            “No!” Sansa got out when she managed to find her voice. She took a step back, only to find her back pressed against the gallery wall. She was stuck between two paintings on either side, and this complete _stranger_ before her.

            He tilted his head at her. _Assessing_ her, as an animal might its prey. “Why shan’t you?”

            Her heart was pounding, so nervous and terrified that she was afraid the wall would begin to mimic the thumps in her chest. “Because…” _I don’t know you. I don’t know these men. I don’t want those men to look at me like a_ thing _to be used and thrown away_.

            He took a step closer, caging her in. He could have placed his arms on either side of her, could have completely eliminated any idea of _escape_. But he didn’t.

            Instead, he asked: “What did you think of the woman?”

            Gods, her heart was so loud, so fast, it was almost a painful beat inside of her. “Wh…what woman?”

            “The woman you spent an hour painting.”

            The model? “Why?”

            His eyes narrowed as he considered Sansa. Slowly, he leaned his head closer, a foot’s distance separating their skin. “You saw it in her. I could tell from the way you captured her, the way you marveled over her body.” Closer – she could smell the mint on his breath again. She was inhaling it, there was so little room left between them. “The _power_ she had over all those witless men. The power over her own body, to walk into a den of ravenous wolves and be not afraid.”

            There was maybe a finger’s width between them now. His eyes were so close, so dark, as Sansa felt he stared right through her. “Would you not like to experience that? That _power_ over people lesser than you? The _power_ to own yourself, and to never be terrified of them again?”

            Sansa could feel the heat radiating off of him. She swore she could hear his own heart beating, thrumming under his skin in time with hers.

            He stepped away.

            That smirk was back on his lips. Not the devilish one the other men wore, but something…kinder? Something that exuded the confidence that he _had won_.

            Sansa _was_ interested, she had to admit. There definitely was an aura of otherworldly power emanating from that model. An aura of self-determination and confidence. And a disregard for whoever else was in that room, roving across her skin with hungry eyes.

            She swallowed, twiddling the brush between her fingers. Sansa stared at him, feeling that excitement coil around and around and through every inch of her being.

            This was an absolutely _terrible_ mistake.

            “Alright.”

            The smile spread fully across his face – from one end of lips to the other, and up through his cheeks to reach his eyes. There was far more than _happiness_ in the man. Relief? Excitement?

            He brought his hand to her sleeve, rubbing the material between fingers. “Now if you will, please remove this garment and enter gallery room one. And remember,” he leaned in close again, lips close to her ear. So close that Sansa’s heart stopped. “They cannot touch you. They can never _have_ you. You own all of the power in that room. What you do with it is how you display yourself to them. Ignore them. Present yourself as though no one is there. As though no one in that room is _important_ enough for you.”

            He stepped away. “Because none of those men _are_.” He glanced once more before leaving.

            Sansa watched as the man slipped amongst the crowd of people.

            The noises came back to her first. The sounds of easels and chairs scraping against the floor. The voices floating through the room, bouncing off the walls and echoing towards the corner she was trapped in.

            Then the realization dawned.

            Sansa Stark was going to pose naked in front of over twenty strangers. There was nothing and nowhere for her to hide.     

            She could leave. That man didn’t know her, and the anticipated restlessness of the men eagerly awaiting the next model was hardly any of her concern. Sansa knew her way around the Gallery by heart. She knew that if she turned through this arch and wound down the hallway, she could be out of the building in minutes.

            But…that idea filled her with disappointment.

            Why?

            Her fingers trembled their way down through unlacing her dress, as though this was the first time she ever used them. The laces seemed so bulky and unnecessary. Theywere the only thing in her way – from exposing herself, from giving in to this ridiculous request.

            She was in the back of room one, thankful that these corners were swathed in darkness. Sansa wasn’t sure she could deal with the double humiliation of undressing _and_ posing for strangers.

            Good gods her heart was about to rip out of her chest.

            The dress pooled at her feet. She slipped herself out of her smallclothes, then her stockings and shoes, letting them lie within the dress. With clumsy fingers she undid the braid and let her hair fall in tight curls about her shoulders. She self-consciously pushed them in front of her, covering her breasts. Her hair was long enough for that, but the _rest_ of her body was completely exposed.

            The men in the room were growing restless, taunting her to _Come out already and give us a good show_. And there, in the back, was Margaery, looking around for Sansa. Worried that her friend might have gotten absconded by some _stranger_.

            Which was not far from the truth.

            Behind Margaery, so far removed from the light of the candle, stood the shadow of the man that got her into this mess. He was too far and too covered in shadows to make out any features on his face.

            Sansa stared at him as she approached the candles and chair.

            The hollering in the room faded. Sansa could hear the crackling of the candles as she moved.

            Every pair of eyes was glued to her naked form.

            Every mind behind those eyes were thinking about what they wanted to _do_ with her naked form.

            Where they wanted to touch, to lick, to _enter_. Soft or quick. With mouth or hands or…

            Sansa kept her eyes on the man as she set herself upon the chair. She swung one leg over an arm, letting the other rest flat against the floor. On instinct, she wanted to bend forward and cover her body with her arms. To shield herself from everyone. To reveal just how _inexperienced_ and terrified she was.

            Sansa leaned back into the crook between the opposite arm and the chairback, her arms resting lazily atop them.

            She was completely exposed.         

            And facing him.

            Her eyes, her face, her body.

            The thrill that had been building up inside of her all afternoon felt ready to _explode_ out of her body. Her limbs coursed with nervous energy, but she also felt the fire flowing in her veins.

            Even in darkness, Sansa could have sworn those man’s eyes turned completely black.

            Sansa didn’t let herself look at anything else, look at or think about anyone else. Not even Margaery, sitting just out of her line of sight. Sansa could only imagine what her friend was thinking, what sorts of thoughts were running through her own mind and fingers.

            She could feel the heavy press of so many eyes exploring her body. Analyzing and memorizing her curves and the movement of her frame underneath her skin. Could feel the stares aimed at her breasts that were _barely_ sheathed by her cascade of hair. The insatiable stares that never moved from between her spread legs.

            Somewhere in her narrow focus – in that timeless world where nothing existed but that dark gaze of the man across the room – Sansa heard easels scraping, heard men fighting for a _better view_.

            And she almost smiled.

            _This_ was what she could do to men.

            Have them beg and shove and plead for a _look_.

            Had the room been smaller, Sansa was sure fights would have broken out to even get a solitary glance at her.

            And if fights had broken out, Sansa wasn’t sure she would have noticed. All she saw was a single pair of intense eyes and the way they gladly too in her exposed form.

            It seemed like a lifetime and no time at all when that familiar _clank_ echoed into the reaches of her mind. Her time was done.

            She slowly removed herself from the chair. Her limbs were a mixture of aching from immobility, and running with that wonderful _fire_. Every inch of her was alive; excited.

            A strange part of her was _sad_ that it was over.

            Sansa spared none of them a glance as she made her way to the back where her clothes lay untouched. She barely managed to shrug the dress back on when someone grabbed her arm.

            The high that coursed through her stilled. Blood froze in her veins.

            The men were unsatisfied with her just _leaving_.

            But it was only Margaery.

            Sansa let out a gasp of relief as she began loosely tying the laces back up. She made sure to take an obscenely long time – she wasn’t sure if she could stare Margaery in the eye right now.

            “That was…” Margaery began, her grip on Sansa’s arm light and warm. Sansa didn’t look up to see the wicked smile spreading across her friend’s lips. “You certainly gave all those men the hour of their life. I’m not sure how many of them were actually _drawing_.”

            Heat flooded into Sansa’s cheeks. She had finished her lacing, and had nowhere else to look but at Margaery. “I…”

            Margaery shushed her. “You were incredibly brave, and incredibly beautiful.” She gave Sansa a smile before pulling her into a hug. Into her ear she whispered: “How did they manage to persuade you into doing _that_?”

            Sansa returned the hug, but paused on the question. She wasn’t sure if she _could_ answer it, or if she wanted to admit _why_ she had done it.

            Or how she didn’t lose her head during it.

            “An incredible performance.”

            The voice broke apart their embrace, and both girls stared at the man before them. He was addressing the two of them, yet his eyes remained on Sansa’s. She was right – there wasn’t a trace of color left in them.

            “Th…Thank you, sir,” Sansa got out.

            Margaery looked at her funny, seeming to piece together events of her own accord. She hadn’t even bothered to ask anything before telling Sansa, “I just remembered Loras asking me to pick something up on my way home. Is it alright if I leave you here?”

            She hardly gave Sansa time to answer – rather, _didn’t_ give her any time – before Margaery turned towards the man and curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you.”

            “And you,” he said, finally acknowledging her presence with a slight bow.

            Sansa watched Margaery pack her belongs, along with Sansa’s, and head for the archway. Before being surrounded by people, she turned towards Sansa and gave her a looking of smug _amusement_.

            As though she knew exactly what would happen.

            Sansa was alone now. And her skin still felt on fire.

            “May I?”

            He was motioning towards the rest of her discarded clothes. Sansa gave an automatic nod of approval before her thoughts caught up with her. “Am I still required to model for the rest of the evening?”

            She wasn’t sure if she _wanted_ to. If her heart would be able to contain itself at another hour of sitting naked and just out of reach.

            The man was already scooping up her clothes – Sansa was embarrassed at him bundling her smallclothes with her stockings and shoes, but he paid the idea no mind – when he answered. “Of course not. I’m sure you gave them _plenty_ of a show. Had I known, I would have charged for this class.”

            She blushed, following him as he wound his way through people and spaces. Sansa could feel the gaze of the men undressing her – them remembering how soft and pale her skin was under the unfortunate dress that blocked their view. She put them out of mind by instead staring only ahead. Only at the man before her.

            Sansa was about to answer when the man stopped before someone. The woman that they ran into before. “Ah, Ros. Tell the men in room one that their session is over.”

            The woman – Ros – was shocked. She flitted between the man and Sansa, her brows furrowed. “Did your replacement not do her duties?”

            “On the contrary, she did far more than was _expected_. As such, I feel that room one has had their share of women for the evening. Please escort them out.” And he began walking away, without confirming the method or the possible – _definite_ – anger of those men. Sansa followed without glancing back at Ros either.

            Sansa’s feet were cold against the tiled floor, and they wove their own way right behind the man’s.

            She didn’t acknowledge who or what was around them as they walked, nor their path through the Gallery. Not until the man stopped before a door and brought a key out to unlock it. He pushed it open and motioned for to Sansa enter first.

            A part of her was telling her to run away, and run away _far_. A man – a complete _stranger_ , she reminded herself again, who had just willed her to pose completely naked for many others (and who had been intensely staring at her as she did) – was now inviting her into a private, locked room. Away from prying eyes. From any means of escape.

            Every lesson drilled into Sansa, from her Septas to her mother to her father – every voice was clamoring inside her head. Warning her to leave. To not trust this man with eyes of black and a grin matching those of demons.

            Run away run away run away. All their voices echoed in her mind.

            Sansa walked through the door.

            It was an office, with simple decoration and furniture. Yet the simplistic décor provided a sort of elegance that Sansa noted many of the wealthy elite in King’s Landing lacked. Those sorts of people were under the assumption of more being better. More furniture, more paintings on walls, more knickknacks that required more dusting and more care. The wealthy had the money and the power, and always wanted _more_.

            This man wanted more, too; but was not the sort to flaunt it unnecessarily.

            The door closed behind Sansa. The noises outside were barely audible, and Sansa wondered if she screamed would anyone here.

            Yet she wasn’t afraid. She was feeling the fire in her veins again. That excitement weaving its tendrils around her stomach, and lower still.

            Sansa moved towards the desk that sat at the center of the room. She ran a finger along its cold, hard surface, eyeing the various papers and objects strewn across it. Her father had a desk like this back in Winterfell, but less elegant. So too did Joffrey’s father. But from rumors about the Red Keep, Robert never used it except to store more wine. Or, for purposes far from writing missives.

            Sansa turned then, leaning against the desk’s edge to face the man. He, too, was leaning against the door, her clothes still in his hands. His eyes seemed to have lost some of that black edge to them. But still they traveled over her body, from lips to toes and back.

            Margaery had always teased Sansa about her innocence. About the way Sansa would blush at the underlying meanings of words. And then feeble attempt at understanding those meanings behind words and actions. Sansa tried to learn, tried to understand through the sly remarks Margaery made. Or even the crude ones from Joffrey.

            Two things they always teased her for – her lack of knowledge in certain _delicate_ areas, and her undying passion for art.

            Well, this was art of a different sort, wasn’t it? In a pure sort, without the need for expensive materials or tools. Two people were all that was needed to creating the highest form of art known to man.

            Sansa knew nearly nothing about this art form. But she always was an eager student.

            He moved his eyes over here again: eyes, lips, neck, breasts, hips, legs, feet. And back up. That rush of fire through her veins thrummed within her. Sansa wondered if it was possible for the fire to completely _consume_ her. Sansa wanted it to.

            “Is this meant to be a _private_ modeling session?” she asked, finally breaking the silence.

            That broke the man out of his own thoughts. His lips formed a terrible grin as he closed the distance between them. He set her clothes down at one end of the desk before turning to face her. Two feet was all that separated them. “Only if you feel that you need more _practice_.”

            Oh yes, Sansa was willing to practice until she mastered this art.

            Sansa pushed off the desk, casually walking her way around it to stand before the high-backed chair. She pushed it away, the feet scraping softly in the room. She gave it a final nudge with a knee before setting herself in the position she had been in before.

            Except this time, her dress covered what she was sure the man deemed most _valuable_.

            “Like this?”

            Sansa saw his chest rise and fall faster, as his hands pressed down into the desk. He leaned over it, the desk creaking in his movement. Slowly his tongue moved over his lips.

            The room was silent save the endless beating of her heart.

            “From what I remember,” he began, “art models do not wear dresses.”

            Sansa was swinging her raised leg against the armrest. It moved the front of the dress, swishing it slightly higher and lower and again. Hardly anywhere near _enough_. She grabbed the laces with a lazy hand, twirling it about her finger. “Are you sure?”

            Her fingers pulled at the lace. Inch by agonizing inch it loosened. Inch by agonizing inch Sansa felt her heart beat faster, felt her blood pump hotter.

            He didn’t say anything, only stared at her tantalizing display. His eyes were torn between what to focus on – her fingers, her breasts beneath the slowly-angling further and further away from propriety.

            She felt it again. That _power_. That same power that coursed through her as all those men watched but could never _touch_ her. She was doing it with him now, wielding her power.

            But at the same time, she wanted him to _take it_.

            The lace was freed. The dress hung loose upon her shoulders, drooping at the front in an affront to high society women. The fabric barely rose halfway over her breasts.

            Sansa twirled the lace between her fingers, staring down at her dress. She looked back up. “I think I might need some assistance in removing my dress.”

            She saw his eyes practically light up. They were still dark, so overcome with Sansa and what she was about to _willingly_ offer up.

            He rounded the desk, stopping just before her and setting his arms atop the armrests. She could see the hardened form of him _aching_ to be free of his breeches. His right hand brushed at the skin beneath her knee, and the contact left traces of heat upon her leg. He slowly brushed his knuckles against her skin, traveling just north of her knee before moving back down. It was so light, so _barely there_.

            “Which part do you need help with?” he asked. His head moved in closer to hers, his hand still moving slowly up and down her leg.

            Sansa almost forgot to breathe, almost forgot what he was asking her about. What she was about to give up. “All of it.”

            Something _terrible_ spread across his face.

            “Of course.”

             His left hand moved to the collar of her dress, slipping it off of her shoulder. His fingers ghosted across her shoulder, her collarbone, her neck. It came to rest at the side of her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek. Everything felt on fire.

            He brought his face an inch before hers. “And please, call me Petyr,” he said as he kissed her.

            It was so _different_ than the sorts Joffrey did. Joffrey was rough and their teeth often clashed. He always tried to shove his tongue into Sansa’s mouth, which Sansa had to fight the urge to bite off.

            But Petyr… His lips were soft against hers. They were as soft as the knuckles over her knee, as the fingers that traveled to entwine in her hair behind her ear. They pulled, slightly, just enough to bring Sansa’s head back and set everything into an untamable frenzy.

            He moved his mouth to place kisses down to her chin, then traced up the line of her jaw. His teeth bit lightly at the skin just under her ear, and Sansa couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped her lips.

            Petyr moved back towards her mouth, kissing with more fervor than before. The knuckles at her knee became fingers and palm, tracing down her shin and back up. They reached her knee, but now they continued, braving across he skin towards her center but never reaching. Once they reached the edge of her dress, they moved back down, and repeated that endless torture.

            Sansa didn’t know that her body could feel this good from a few touches.

            He moved his mouth to take her bottom hip between his teeth. It was as soft as the kisses he placed under her ear. Petyr moved his teeth from one side of her lip to the other, nibbling along every bit with just enough force, before replacing his teeth with his own lips again.

            The hand in her hair traced its way down to the front of her dress, dipping underneath to cup a breast. Sansa gasped into his lips. Her breast was just large enough to fit within his hand. As though they were _meant_ for him. He brushed his thumb over her nipple, back and forth and back and forth. Sansa was already on fire, but when he squeezed at the nipple, she was sure she was going to combust.

            “Petyr…” she gasped.

            He moved his lips away, his eyes staring into hers. There it was – that softness that smoothed the edges on his face and the darkness in his stare. The fact that all Sansa had to do was _say his name_ was thrilling.

            “Tell me you want this,” he murmured into her neck, placing kisses along the column of her throat.

            She could hardly breathe, hardly think. But she knew she wanted it, wanted whatever _this_ was that was happening.

            “Yes,” she moaned as his fingers continued to stroke and pull at her nipple. “Yes,” she repeated, his other hand traveling further up and up her thigh, finally breaking the boundary of her dress.

            Sansa closed her eyes as his knuckles brushed closer and closer towards her center. She was so _warm_ , and his hands were only making her feel like she was going to combust from the heat.

            She moaned as his knuckles brushed at her cunt, a light touch before retreating to her thigh. On instinct, her hands held onto the backrest, fingers digging into the soft leather.

            Petyr moved the dress front down over her breasts, exposing them to the cold of the room before being replaced with a hand and mouth. One nipple was being tortured with fingers, the other with his tongue and teeth. Sansa couldn’t decide which was better – only that she wanted _more_.

            “Oh gods,” she said, and she could feel Petyr’s lips smile against her breast.

            She had almost forgotten the long strokes across her thigh until his fingers brushed up against her. They rubbed, slowly, finding their way towards her clit, but out of sync with the lapping and stroking and pulling at her nipples. Sansa was losing focus of the world – everything that remained was wherever Petyr was touching her.

            Where she was feeling that heat build and pool between her legs.

            Petyr removed himself from her breasts and cunt. Sansa’s eyes flew open, scared that something was wrong. But he was kneeling before her now. His hands moved to her foot on the floor and raised it to his mouth, trailing light kisses across her skin before setting her leg over the other armrest.

            His fingers gingerly grabbed the hem of her dress. Instead of pulling it away Petyr gazed up into her.

            Sansa’s breath was coming out hot and fast, her mind was so foggy with the pleasure and the heat. She managed, in her state of headiness, to give a small nod.

            An exchange of power.

            Petyr brought the dress up to her waist, lifting her butt to completely expose her lower half to him.

            He only stared at her for several long seconds. She saw, through her own half-lidded eyes, that one of Petyr’s arms was slowly moving up and down across the front of his breeches.

            His mouth trailed kisses from her knee inwards, slowly and softly. Sansa felt the pressure building up with every kiss he left, with every inch he grew closer.

            He placed his free hand on her thigh, thumb moving in slow circles, before sinking his mouth onto her cunt.

            Sansa called out his name. Her fingers were tight against the backrest.

            Her mind was going blank. The only thing was Petyr’s tongue on her, _inside_ her. He licked at the sides of her cunt before plunging his tongue entirely within. The heat of his breath mixed with her own heat, coalescing against his tongue that moved so _slowly_. Moved as though Petyr was _savoring_ this moment. Savoring the taste of Sansa giving herself to him.

            The heat had been building for so long, that the moment his tongue brushed against her clit, Sansa was lost. She couldn’t remember anything but the pleasure that coursed through her. The heat that filled every inch of her body and exited from the scream on her lips.

            She hadn’t realized she had been rocking her hips against his mouth until the pleasure began to ebb away. Even as it was fading, Petyr didn’t stop. He lapped at all of the pleasure that coursed out of her body, sucking up every bit of her as though he was a starved man.

            Sansa felt her heart in her head, in her hands, in her cunt. Her whole body was electric. She was still on fire and she wasn’t sure how she hadn’t been completely burned up.

            Petyr groaned as he moved back from her thighs and brought his lips up to hers again. She tasted herself on him, tasted the salt of her pleasure and the mint on his breath.

            Through the haze of the fire, Sansa heard Petyr untying his breeches. He groaned. She peered through to see his hand continue to work himself, moving in languid strokes.

            He barely moved his lips away from hers when he said, “I hope you are prepared for your next lesson.”

            Sansa wasn’t sure there was a lesson _better_ than what she just experienced. Or that her body was prepared for anything else.

            She nodded.

            He trailed his mouth down her throat again, biting at the junction of her neck and shoulder. Sansa moaned.

            And then she felt him.

            The length of his cock was rubbing against her cunt in slow, torturous motions. The fire that had waned from her first explosion of pleasure was growing. Sansa had no idea how Petyr held himself back. This art felt so _good_ that she wouldn’t want to go slow. She wasn’t sure, if she was leading, that she would be _able_ to go slowly.

            The breath out of Sansa’s lips was a continuous moan. A single, long plea.

            Good gods, if the first lesson was that good, how would the second one feel?

            “Petyr, please,” she breathed.

            Sansa felt his own breath hitch on her skin.

            Then his cock was moving, gradually, into her.

            He was barely in when Sansa began moaning. When the fire that had subsided roared into full force and coiled between her legs.

            Petyr pressed himself in and pulled out, inch by inch. Allowing Sansa to get used to him, to get used to the mixture of pleasure and pain. Each time he went in deeper, Sansa’s moan grew louder.

            She felt his hips press against hers when he was fully within, and the pain at the feeling of his thick cock buried inside her was drowned out by the pleasure that coursed through her. Sansa felt tears at the corners of her eyes – it felt so _good_.

            And he began moving, removing his cock almost completely before sliding it back in. Back, forward. Petyr went slow at first, allowing Sansa the chance to understand what he was doing and to become comfortable with the feeling of being so _full_. She got used to the rhythm and began moving her hips in tandem with his. To push into his cock, to stoke that roaring fire. Then he picked up the pace, faster and faster. Petyr brought his hands up to rub at her breasts and tug at her nipples in time with his thrusts.

            Sansa wasn’t sure how much longer she would last. The pressure building in her cunt was so much larger than with just his tongue. With his mouth continuing to nip and bite at her neck – and with his fingers working relentlessly at her breasts – Sansa was going to break soon.

            “Oh _gods_ ,” she moaned as the overwhelming wave of ecstasy flowed through and out of her. She screamed Petyr’s name, only for her voice to be drowned by his mouth covering hers. His motions grew faster and faster, and when his cock started thrusting in an irregular pattern, Sansa felt him release his seed into her. Felt the fires within them mix into a fierce wildfire. He growled into her mouth, each of them capturing the other’s sound of release.

            The came down together. Motions slowing from erratic thrusts into languid strokes. Until they stopped, his cock still inside her and their mouths pressed against the other’s.

            Her heart and their breathing – that was all that was left of the world.

            It took what felt like forever for Sansa’s body to return to her, for the irregularity of the thrumming to slow and finally stop.

            Petyr pulled his face back, bringing a hand up to replace an errant curl and caress her jaw. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, placing kisses where his fingers were.

            Sansa beamed at the compliment, raising her head to allow Petyr more access of her neck. At some point Sansa had released her hands’ grip of the chair and slid her fingers through his hair. Had held them as the release coursed through her. She pulled his head away and brought his lips back to hers – she could still taste herself on him, and wondered what he would taste like.

            There was a knock on the door.

            Reality came back to Sansa.

            She was in the Gallery, sitting in the curator’s office, on his chair, with his cock still firmly seated within her.

            Sansa almost laughed.

            Petyr finally pulled out and reset his breeches and hair to a modicum of _proper_. Through it all he continued to stare at Sansa, at their fluids seeping from her cunt and onto the chair and floor. Sansa idly hoped they wouldn’t ruin the chair.

            But it definitely _was_. As ruined as the girl that sat upon it.

            It would be a constant reminder of what they did.

            Petyr helped to right Sansa out of the chair and fix her dress. He didn’t seem in the least bothered about the chair.

            The knock repeated.

            “Next time,” he began, lacing up her front. “We shall continue with your lessons. I think this is a perfect place to stop for today.”

            Sansa smiled, watching his fingers move with deft precision. Her head was still high from their deeds, her body something that didn’t even feel like hers.

            Oh, the sorts of things Sansa could _learn_ from Petyr.

            She couldn’t wait.


End file.
